


Some Nights I Call It a Draw

by 17603, Sidney Sussex (SidneySussex)



Category: Avengers (Comics), The Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17603/pseuds/17603, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidneySussex/pseuds/Sidney%20Sussex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Banner meets Hank Pym at the start of his first year.  Clint Barton is helpful (sort of).  Bruce is helpful in return (sort of).  And then there is their RA, Phil Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _We neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Marvel Entertainment, LLC._
> 
> _If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let us know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome. (And yeah, we totally mix and mash up the comics and the movie 'verse and play around with timelines a little. Sorry.)_

Bruce Banner meets Hank Pym at a science department orientation week mixer. He's two years ahead of Bruce, wearing a worn red T-shirt with a cartoon ant on the front and "Van Dyne Pest Control" printed on the back. There's a pair of nitrile gloves hanging out of his pocket, which is how they get talking in the first place, and he feels pretty smooth, standing there with a can of supermarket brand Dr Pepper (Dr Bob), asking what he's been doing in the labs. Henry, call me Hank, is tall and has shoulders and Bruce's libido does a little somersault when his eyes light up while he's talking about cell structure and mutation, but he squashes it firmly. He's here to learn, get a degree, not to moon over blue-eyed third year geniuses with ridiculous floppy hair and hands that move when they talk. He more or less takes the hint when someone asks about the shirt and Hank turns bright red and mumbles about a girl he knew in high school; Bruce mentally shifts him from "stupid daydream fodder until proven otherwise" to "don't even bother."

They live on the same floor, which is ridiculously unfair, because Bruce sees Hank coming back from the showers at the end of the hall in just pajama pants, or one memorable two AM, just a towel, at least three nights a week. He tries not to stare (Hank isn't muscular, he doesn't have visible abs like the football players or any definition to speak of, but he's broad across the chest and shoulders, not scrawny like Bruce) and also showers in the mornings. All this would be forgivable, forgettable even, if he didn't smile at him in the cafeteria and ask Bruce how classes were going, if he didn't plop down next to him on the common area couch in the middle of the night and ask what Bruce was reading (he's not really reading, he's waiting until his roommate has finished having athletic, un-awkward normal person sex with whomever he brought back that night, and Hank doesn't need to know that), but he's brilliant. He's smart and interesting and interested, and he asks Bruce to stop by the lab some time, he helps the Ph.D. student with their benchwork and an extra set of hands would be great, if Bruce wants to, if he'd like to.

He would, more than anything, but he always talks himself out of going.

One night, he goes to take a shower and Hank is there, talking to one of the seniors as he undoes his shoes. He grins and says hi, turns around so that Bruce sees that he's wearing an unzipped hoodie but no shirt, and he's asking when Bruce is going to stop by the lab, because he's going to run the FPLC and would he like to help, but Bruce can't make his mouth work and he knows he's gone hot bright red. Eventually, he mumbles something about showering and ducks into one of the cubicles and undoes his buttons with shaking fingers. He hears the senior say, "is that him, he's obviously got a massive crush on you, Pym," and Hank growls, "shut up, Richards," and then Bruce yanks on the water and steps under it so he doesn't have to hear any more. By the time he gets out, Richards is gone and Hank is either in the other occupied stall or gone too.

Bruce gives himself a stern talking-to regarding attainable goals and realistic expectations while he brushes his teeth. Third-years with small rectangular glasses, a fine dusting of light brown hair under their navel and access to interesting lab equipment may feature heavily.

Bruce stops leaving his door open in the evenings and shifts to the library to study, avoids the dorm building when he's not sleeping and the science department when he isn't in class. It turns out that his roommate is a pretty nice guy, for a semi-jock art major, and he tells him to call him Hawkeye and the late night hookups stop, he's suddenly much more courteous and they start eating breakfast together. Clint (because Hawkeye is a ridiculous name) is rude and obnoxious and hilarious, and Bruce thinks he might have finally found a friend. Clint keeps up a steady stream of upsettingly observant commentary on the other students while shoveling oatmeal into his mouth, and Bruce eats his toast and can't help laughing, and almost forgets about Hank. Until one day Clint elbows him and says, "there's the Ant Man, you know, that junior who likes bugs and has a huge crush on you."

Clint, who is possibly a diabolical evil mastermind, waves Hank over to their table. He's only got a bottle of orange juice and a granola bar for breakfast, clearly intending to eat on the run, but he sits down next to Bruce anyway. He's wearing the red shirt with the ant again, the girlfriend shirt, which looks really soft, and it isn't until Clint kicks him under the table that Bruce realizes that Hank said good morning and possibly something else.

Bruce mumbles a good morning, hoping the pause hasn't been long enough to get awkward, and then tries to look preoccupied with anything but Hank, as though it's his physical chemistry lab that's got all of his attention, and not soft fabric and amused eyes and impossibilities.

Clint, sitting opposite shoveling oatmeal into his mouth, looks entirely too amused. "Can you make me a giant ant to ride around?" he asks Hank, who pauses chewing momentarily, eyebrows pressing together.

"Out of what?" he says after he swallows.

Bruce contemplates dying of embarrassment. Clint waves one hand regally, reaching for Bruce's toast with his other. "With science, Pym, do keep up."

Hank laughs and his elbow brushes Bruce's ribs. "I could make you smaller so you can ride a regular ant, that'd be much easier."

Clint looks surprised and delighted. "How would you do that?" he says, and Bruce starts to say something about removing unnecessary molecules exactly as Hank is very seriously saying, "with science, Barton, do keep up." He stops midway through, though; stops and leans back a bit, adjusting his glasses as he looks at Bruce. He has a few tiny dark brown freckles on his cheekbones, just under his eyes and his Adams apple bobs as he swallows, and he's grinning.

"I need to get to class," Bruce says, because the only other thing floating on the surface of his brain was, "can I touch your neck," or, worse, just reaching out and doing it, and he needs to mentally regroup and also die of embarrassment. Unfortunately, when he gets up, his feet tangle in the chair legs and instead of striding briskly away, he sprawls forwards and nearly catches his chin on the next table over.

There's a split second's dead silence and Bruce is pretty sure that's the earth's cue to open up and swallow him, but, unfortunately, it doesn't. Instead, two things happen: Clint laughs (Bruce is almost grateful; it breaks the tension and Clint is used to Bruce's extremities following the Heisenberg principle anyway), and Hank stands up and offers Bruce a hand. Bruce takes it (what else can he do?) and it's too much, Hank's skin is warm and Bruce can can feel the callous on his thumb from too many Eppendorf tubes (there is a matching one on Bruce's other hand) and it's somehow too close, too real, and he grabs for his bag with both hands like a last line of defence and mutters something, half excuse, half thanks, as he hurries away.

He thinks he hears Hank asking Clint something, probably, "what did I do," but the dining hall is loud and he can't be sure. He manages to avoid anywhere that Hank might be for the rest of the day, and after the library closes at two AM, a quick glance around the door of his room reveals that Clint isn't asleep, he isn't even there. Or, he thinks he isn't until he turns on the light, and almost yelps when he realizes that Clint is sitting on his bed, mock-stroking a ratty stuffed lion that came from God knows where and scowling.

"Nice try, Banner," he says, "but sooner or later you dance with the reaper."

Bruce rubs his hand over his eyes and kicks the door shut behind him. "What are you even talking about?"

Clint shrugs. "Your boyfriend hung around for about ten minutes after your grand exit, asking me if you were mad at him about something and where you had been lately, and did you not like chemistry?" Bruce starts to say something, but Clint holds up one hand grandly, the other still resting on the lion, and he falls silent. "I had to reassure the Ant Man that you really did like chemistry, you weren't just being polite, because he said that it's okay if you don't, he doesn't mean to bore you, and then he wanted to know if you liked physics better, and then we had the worst conversation ever about biology and I discovered that he didn't know that stick insects have two dongs."

Bruce sinks down onto the bed beside Clint, who pats his shoulder and stuffs the lion into his hands. He's not sure if he should be appalled or resigned. "So we talked about bug boners for a while, and then I went to class," he continues, grinning like he didn't just ruin any possibility of Hank thinking Bruce was a proper mature scientist and human being. "And speaking of bug boners, he totally has one for you." He wiggles his fingers like antennae, and Bruce takes advantage of Clint's momentary amusement to smack him in the face with the lion.

"Bugs don't get boners," Bruce tells him. "They're external fertilizers."

Clint rolls his eyes and says, "Way to miss the point, Banner. And since when do you study bug sex anyway?"

Bruce, who studies everything but definitely not _bug sex_ , mutters something about how at least one of them has to study something and then flops down onto his bed, hoping that between Clint's distraction and the lateness of the hour, there won't be any more horribly embarrassing conversations that evening. He's been Clint's roommate for the better part of a year, though; he ought to know better by now.

"You like him," Clint says. "You totally do. You want to hang around his lab and talk about science with him and have him pluck the delicate, blushing orchid of your virginity from its awkward branch and – "

Bruce swings blindly with the lion and it connects (with his face) before that thought can be finished. "Yes," he says into his pillow. "I like him. Now leave me to die and never talk about orchids again and, and… how did you know, anyway?"

He lifts his head enough to side-eye Clint, who shrugs and looks slightly contrite. "Educated guess, tiger. Nothing wrong with it, either." He pats Bruce's shoulder and smiles quite nicely, like he's happy and like he cares. "Just stop avoiding him, okay? Talk to him about the shrink ray or pretend you need help with your homework."

Bruce pushes himself up on his elbows, then rolls and twists into a vaguely upright position. "I guess the worst thing he can say is no," he tries, "or that he doesn't like guys." He doesn't add _or doesn't like me_ to that, but it bobs to the surface of his brain like a cork.

Clint makes a huffing noise and slings an arm around his shoulders. "He's not going to say no, and I'm surprised your clothes didn't burn off from how hard he was checking you out earlier. He likes guys, he likes _you_ ," he emphasizes each point with a spine-shattering backpat. "Talk to him tomorrow."

Bruce sighs, smoothing his hands over the lion's scraggly mane. It's missing half of an eye, which gives it a rakish angry glare. "Tomorrow," he says, and that seems to be that, at least until he's stripped down and in his pajama pants and Clint sits up from where he's been rooting under his bed and points at him.

"You need to take Mr. Fury back to Thor," he says. "With his new accessory." Mr. Fury, which is apparently the name of the lion, is now wearing an eyepatch with a lightning bolt drawn on it.

"What?" Bruce stares.

Clint crams the lion into his arms and holds open the door. "I borrowed him for diabolical stroking purposes, he needs to go back."

Bruce looks at his watch doubtfully. "Clint," he says, "it's three AM." His complaints fall on deaf ears though, because he finds himself in the empty hall wearing only his plaid sleep pants, clutching a twenty-something plush lion wearing an eye patch.

"Room four-fifteen," Clint yells, and when he dutifully knocks (there is light creeping from under the door), Hank is the one who opens it.

"Oh, you bastard," Bruce says to an absent Clint, then immediately freezes in horror when Hank says, "I'm sorry?"

Half a dozen possibilities cross his mind simultaneously, things he should say, things he shouldn't, things that will definitely not help his case at all, but there is literally nothing he could say that would make this worse, so he forces out an "um" and holds out the stuffed lion. "Clint said, uh, that Thor needed this back. Immediately. For some reason."

Hank stares at him for a moment and Bruce can feel the tips of his ears burning and he was wrong, it can definitely get worse. Except that Hank cracks up, reaches for the lion, and calls, "Thor, urgent delivery for you!" Then he turns back to Bruce, standing in his sleep pants in the middle of an empty hallway, now lion-less and suddenly acutely aware of his lack of a shirt, and says, "Well, would you like to come in, or am I still a bastard?" and Bruce will forgive the world for not having swallowed him up at lunch if only it will do it now.

Hank and Thor's room is fairly tidy, and an enormous bronzed god is sprawled on one of the beds, phone pressed to his ear, making dutiful "uh-huh" noises. The lion is clutched in his other hand, and he seems pleased. Bruce wonders how Hank likes sharing with a football player, and his brain unhelpfully fills in, _he probably likes the view_.

Hank sits down on the desk chair (the other is piled with English lit texts) and gestures to his bed, which has a Very Hungry Caterpillar comforter that is slightly comforting, but also threatening to send Bruce into hysterical panic-laughter. "He's almost done, he's talking to his mother in Norway," Hank whispers, and before Bruce can say anything, Thor booms a jovial farewell and hangs up.

"Doctor Banner," Thor rumbles (and Bruce wants to correct him, he's a first year undergrad, not a doctor), "are you Hawkeye's roommate?"

That's new. "Clint? Yeah," he casts around for some kind of conversational inspiration, but Thor carries on.

"We have art history one together, he is a brave and clever soul."

Hank leans forward a little, he's wearing a half-zipped hoodie again and no shirt and Bruce tries desperately not to look (angular shadows and smooth skin, the defined dip of collarbones). "Thor is a medieval lit major," he says, then falters, and a flash of panic crosses his face, so quick Bruce thinks he might have imagined it. "Have you read any good books lately?"

Helpfully, Bruce's mind goes completely blank.

He looks around Hank and Thor's room in a panic, hoping he'll see something to kick his brain into gear, but all he can see is Thor's battered copy of the _Alexiad_ (Bruce hasn't read it) and a textbook called _Sexuality in Mediaeval Europe_ (even less helpful, and Bruce is caught somewhere between laughing like a middle-schooler and just giving up altogether, because clearly the gods have it in for him tonight). The silence is long enough to wrap around Bruce's brain, insulate it so that no thoughts can get in or out and he's frozen, and somewhere along the way, Thor takes pity on his wide-eyed dismay and claps him on the back (the force of it nearly winds him and he has to straighten his glasses afterward).

"It is late!" Thor declares, a fact of which Bruce is painfully aware and he is going to kill his roommate later. "Perhaps we shall save the discussion of great literature for another time!" And he promptly flops back onto the bed, self-satisfied look on his face, and resumes stroking Mr. Fury.

Bruce looks from him to Hank, not sure what to do next – was that a dismissal? should he leave? but Hank, who has had a sort of fixed grin on his face for the past ten minutes (surely it's been longer than that), manages to twist it into a real smile and says, "I guess we'll have to talk about science, then. Thor likes that, it puts him to sleep."

Unfortunately, the first thing that comes to mind is Clint's voice saying, "stick insects have two dongs," and true though this may be, it's not the conversation Bruce wants to have. Fortunately, Hank asks him about his focus and his interests and they move past the Potential Insect Dong Discussion barrier fairly quickly. The conversation gets easier, Hank draws the chair closer to the bed, resting his elbows on his knees, and Bruce sprawls backwards against the wall, plaster cold under his shoulder blades. He's covered in goosebumps, but Hank is opposite him, knees almost touching, hands twisting delicate arcs as he describes a fossil lab he worked in once, and interrupting, popping the bubble of low lamplight and quiet snoring (from Thor) is the last thing he wants to do. Hank has nice hands, slim and graceful and in proportion, not comically square-knuckled and outsized like Bruce's, and he can't help staring at them, wanting to touch them or possibly have them touch him again (if he concentrates, he can still remember that morning).

There's a lull in the conversation after a while, maybe hours later, and Bruce says, "why does Clint call you Ant Man?"

Hank goes bright red. "It's easier if I just show you," he mumbles, and, instead of reaching for something (his laptop, a book, a drawer handle), he unzips his hoodie the rest of the way and shrugs it off. "I don't know if you can see it in this light," he says, turning around and hunching forward. Bruce, unsure of what he's going to see, shuffles forward and up onto his knees, leaning closer to peer at the smooth expanse of pale skin stretched over bumps of spine and planes of shoulder blades. It takes a moment, but then he sees it. Thin lines of ants, three of them, trailing up Hank's back and over his ribs in grey ink. One curves around his hip. They seem to follow the contours naturally, and Bruce suspects they're almost invisible from a distance, they must be, because he's built an embarrassingly large mental catalogue of Hank Pym shirtless, and ants have never figured in anywhere.

Hank jumps, and Bruce realizes that his hand has gone right ahead and touched one of the lines, just above the waistband of his trousers, with no permission from his higher functions.

"I had a thing," Hank says, "for a while, I was going to study ants. It's a long story, but I got these and everyone calls me Ant Man. Except Thor, who calls me something in old Norse that I think means Ant Warrior." He forces a laugh and his torso shudders under Bruce's hand, which is stuck, apparently. He hasn't moved. He's still touching him. And when Hank turns around, his hand kind of hangs, stuck in mid-air between them while his brain stutters and eventually gives up, because he's eye level with Hank's chest and his fingertips are still warm and Hank is as brilliant to talk to as he hoped and Bruce has never wanted to be around anyone like this, never wanted anything like this before.

Bruce, caught in his thoughts and the remembered feel of Hank's skin against his hand, doesn't notice the silence until Hank visibly swallows and mutters, "so, uh," and Bruce realizes he's misinterpreting the lack of conversation. He opens his mouth to say something, so that Hank won't think he's mocking him or trying not to laugh, but he's not good at talking to people at the best of times and three-thirty AM is nowhere near the best of times, so his brain-to-mouth filter doesn't engage until well after the words are out, and what he ends up saying is, "I like them."

The look Hank gives him is hard to interpret, half skeptical, like he's heard that before, half uncertain, and maybe Bruce's brain-to-mouth filter never engaged, because he hears himself continuing. "No, really, I do, that's, the dedication you had to what you wanted to do, that's really," but his mind catches on the word _had_ , and before he can think better of it, he asks, "So why don't you – " and then remembers the shirt that was Hank's girlfriend's and the flash of a look in Hank's eyes when he said, _I was going to_ , and he backtracks, "no, wait, you don't have to, please forget I asked," and wonders if there's any way to get Hank to just forget this whole evening and let Bruce try again later, like in about a million years when he's actually capable of holding a conversation like a human being.

Hank sighs and drags a hand down his face, but he doesn't look irritated, only tired and a little sad. "It's a long story," he says, "but the short version is that I screwed up." Bruce wants to ask how, but the discussion is obviously over, so he nods and tries not to wonder where the red shirt with the ant and the girl who gave it to him fits into the story. It's none of his business, and he should make his excuses and leave, now that he's killed the easy conversation and put an enormous damper on the mood. Not that there was a mood. Other than being friends and talking about science. That was all the mood they had.

The dim tungsten yellow light that made the tattoos hard to see throws long shadows, makes everything noir, and Hank has a square jaw and angular nose and looks every bit a proper grown up, too old and clever to be bothering with Bruce, who knows he hasn't shaken off the last of teenage awkwardness, he stumbled right from high school into a physics degree and never felt strongly enough about anything to have it etched into his skin with ink and needles.

Hank's hand on his elbow makes him jump, and he tries not to lean into it. "You're freezing," he says, and looks so hang-dog guilty that Bruce smiles without meaning to. "Here, you can borrow – " he stops, mid-reach with the hoodie he was wearing, and starts again. "You can, uh, go if you want. I mean, it's late. You probably have class." It's Friday, Bruce doesn't have anything at all on Fridays, but Hank probably does, and when he stammers this out, swinging his legs awkwardly sideways to stand up, Hank stands with him.

"No!" he says, then recoils, curves in on himself, "I mean, all I was going to do today was flush out the FPLC and maybe do some tissue cultures, it's a lab day, nothing scheduled, I just, look, would you like to come by?"

They're standing too close, Hank is still half reaching out with the sweatshirt and Bruce suddenly has Clint's voice in his head again, yelling, "he likes guys, and you," and when he looks up, Hank is leaning down a little, and Bruce has a completely ridiculous cold flash of relief when he realizes what the expression on his face is. Hank looks terrified.

He doesn't know what Hank has to be frightened of. Bruce is the only person here (aside from Thor, who is snoring like an F-22 fighter jet and doesn't count), and the scariest thing Bruce is likely to do is open his mouth (he's about ten seconds from doing it) and say something that ruins everything (five seconds), something confused and too honest and epically stupid (three seconds) and then he actually does open his mouth and, miracle of miracles, what comes out is, "thanks," and he takes the sweatshirt Hank is still half holding out to him; it's worn and warm and more threadbare than it looks, and Bruce notices the fraying cuffs and wonders if Hank worries at them while he's thinking the way he does, wonders what else they have in common (nothing, really, they both like science and stay awake too late and Bruce wants to talk to Hank and learn from him and do anything with him, everything, and Hank probably just wants him to go away so he can sleep). Except that he's still standing there with Hank's sweater in his hands and Hank is still looking at him like he's terrified of what Bruce might do next and it's four in the morning and Bruce is tired, shoulders slumped and mind racing and all his filters down.

The eye contact has gone from accidental, through awkward and out the other side into terrifying. Hank is far more expressive than he probably realizes, and Bruce feels exposed, self-conscious under his gaze while emotions twist his face. "I'll just – " Bruce says, at the same time as Hank says, "You're really – "and they stop and stare at each other. The silence expands again, sucking the oxygen out of the air and Bruce can feel his breathing picking up, chest heaving, and when something brushes his waist, he jumps about a foot and lurches backwards, grabbing out for the nearest thing. Hank's hands close around his upper arms and Bruce realizes that he's got both palms flat against Hank's ribs, thumbs resting in the softer dip of abdomen, and they're almost chest to chest, or would be if Bruce weren't six inches shorter. Hank still looks terrified, but instead of letting go, he leans down and kisses Bruce gently on the mouth.

Everything stops. Bruce was breathing a moment ago and now there's no air; he was staring in wide-eyed terror at Hank a moment ago and now he can't see anything, only feel the warmth of Hank's hands on his arms and a draft from somewhere, cold against his back. It takes a second or two for him to catch up with what just happened (Hank, kissing him, like a question, like some kind of exercise in fear and trust), and when he does snap back into reality, Hank is saying something, so quietly that Bruce almost can't hear it. He has to lean closer to realize that Hank is apologizing to the empty air (to him), sorry, he's sorry, he shouldn't have, and when he realizes he's still holding onto Bruce, he lets go like he's been shocked. There are eight inches of space and misunderstanding and uncertainty between them and Hank's eyes wide with what he's just done, and Bruce knows all his excuses by heart, Hank is too clever and too confident (except not anymore), he likes girls and he has a research studentship and who is Bruce kidding, only Hank is still there, inches away, and Bruce says, "you shouldn't be sorry," and then, quieter, easier to pretend he hasn't said anything, "I'm not."

The grin spreads slowly, but it starts in his eyes, and when he steps in and leans down again, Bruce presses upwards. It's an automatic reaction; his brain has completely shut down, he's running on some sort of weird autopilot he didn't even know he had. One of Hank's hands settles in the small of his back and the other curls around his jaw, fingertips rubbing over the stubble. Bruce brings his hands up to rest on his waist, except he underestimates and ends up with a hipbone in each palm, thumbs in the soft inside grooves. Hank makes a pleased noise into his mouth and spins them around, sitting back onto the bed and pulling Bruce down beside him, running a hand through his hair.

After a while, when Hank pulls back, pupils blown wide and breathing a little fast, Bruce yawns hugely. He can't help it, it's almost five in the morning by Thor's glowing alarm clock, and seconds later, Hank does the same, and gives him a sleepy smile. "Do you want to come into the lab tomorrow?" he asks, and when Bruce nods, kisses him again.

They end up lying down face to face, covers yanked up to their ears and Hank's leg hooked between both of Bruce's, and one minute they're kissing and the next thing he knows, Bruce is waking up to the persistent beeping of an unfamiliar alarm clock and the utterly alien sensation of warm skin. Hank's voice mutters near his ear, something about could Thor turn that fucking thing off, it's not even seven, go swim your fucking laps or whatever, and the alarm goes silent, the arms around him tighten and Hank kisses him on the corner of the mouth before yawning and drifting off to sleep again. Bruce looks at his scrubby light brown stubble and faint sleepy smile and squashes the bubble of panic that tries to swell in his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is all Giles; I did nothing and will just stand in this corner and be in awe of him. - Sidney Sussex)

Clint has been weirdly secretive lately, following Bruce to the library and then sitting there with his sketchbook, furtively scribbling away, jumping every time someone walks past. It's almost like he's waiting for someone, except no one ever comes. He's also stopped bringing people back to their room too, even though Bruce is there less than ever now, and when he does stop by at midnight for his pajamas, Clint is always hunched over his sketchbook drawing furiously. He hasn't spied Clint flirting from across the school lawn for weeks, or seen a nude, muscular torso. Other than Thor. Who doesn't count.

Today it's just them, Bruce with his mountain of course workbooks and Clint with some nebulous history essay that he ignores in favor of curling up on the chair and drawing. On Thursday afternoon, after the seventh time in an hour that Clint has kicked Bruce's chair while fidgeting, he puts down his pen and closes the book he's been trying to take notes from.

"I'm sorry," Clint says, staring anxiously at him. "I didn't mean to."

"What's the matter?"

Clint scowls. "Nothing, nothing's the matter, why would you think something's the matter, what are you reading, anyway?" He makes an abortive grab for Bruce's book, sprawling across the table, but freezes mid-flail and shoots back suddenly, chair rocking precariously on its hind legs. Bruce follows his gaze to a group of first-year engineering students. Jasper Sitwell, with whom he has math, waves, and Clint's face contorts in horror that would be comical if Bruce was a cruel man. As it stands, Bruce has Clint to thank for the fact that Hank Pym kisses him on the mouth in the labs late at night and sleeps curled around him, both of them squeezed together in the same narrow dorm bed. He doesn't feel bad at all when he gestures for Jasper to come over.

"Hi, Bruce," he says, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Hi, Hawkeye."

Bruce cocks an eyebrow at Clint, who turns an even brighter shade of red and mutters hello, hunching over the art history book he's been ignoring all week like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. "Do you guys have class together?" Bruce asks innocently. Jasper is watching Clint without trying to look like he's watching Clint, and it's horribly obvious.

"Yeah," he says, "we have western art survey together."

Bruce has a downright evil idea. "Have you finished your essay?"

"Not yet, I was actually coming in to get books for it."

"Clint hasn't finished, either," he says, and kicks Clint under the table when his head snaps up in alarm. "You guys should work on it, I was going to go get some lunch."

Before either of them can protest, he sweeps up his books and scuttles for the door. One last glance over his shoulder reveals Jasper sitting down, not in Bruce's vacated chair, but in the one next to Clint, who looks somewhat pole-axed.

Hank is at his desk when Bruce peers around the door, and his face lights up when he sees him. It's been three weeks and he still can't believe it, he keeps waiting to wake up, or for Hank to wake up and realize that he's scraping the bottom of the barrel with a nerdy little first-year, or to just get bored of him. But he hasn't. They end up lying on Hank's bed, Bruce tucked under his arm, legs tangled together and Hank's hand in his hair.

"My roommate has a huge crush on an engineering student," Bruce says, and Hank laughs.

"I thought he had a huge crush on you, for a while."

Bruce props himself up on one elbow so he can stare at Hank, who grins lazily back. "What?"

"Oh, come on," he says, squeezing Bruce's shoulders. "He clearly likes 'em brainy, Thor says that despite the way he acts sometimes, he's really smart, and he threatened to eat my liver with baked beans and a nice orange juice if I caused you any distress."

Clint did not mention this part of the conversation. They may be having words later. A tiny part of him wonders where Clint was, why he couldn't have been there in high school when Bruce was getting beaten up every other day and desperately wishing handsome boys with dangerous smiles would notice him.

Hank laughs at the incredulous stare and bounces up to kiss him. "I'm glad he didn't, though. I don't think I could compete with those arms."

He wonders where Hank was, because he's nerdy and sweet with wide blue eyes and an awkward way of moving, but his smile is still dangerous and his shoulders stretch out his T-shirts in a way that Bruce's never have or will.

"I like you, though," he tells him, and Hank pulls him close and kisses him again.

Clint Barton is inches away from a full blown nervous spaz. Jasper Sitwell is perched next to him, reaching over his arm to turn pages in the book they're looking at, knee possibly bumping against Clint's leg. He's lost the power of speech. He can't remember his essay topic. He can't remember what day it is. He remembers that Bruce Banner is a filthy traitor though.

"If you wrote about the Neo-Classical and Romantic periods with broader social context, you could include poetry and stuff, too," Jasper says, fingers tapping absently on Judith holding the head of Holofernes. "I mean, I know you like Baudelaire."

Clint looks at him, surprised. "How did you know?"

Jasper blushes. "I saw you reading one day. Uh. Do you like the French or the translations? I like the French."

It's Clint's turn to blush. "I, uh, I don't know French, went to a school that didn't really have languages." This is an understatement; he went to a school that didn't really have a literacy level. "I have a favourite translated edition, though."

He is so out of his league. Sure, Clint's good-looking enough and he knows it, he can smile and brush close to people and somehow they seem to find him attractive, the shallow ones with easily turned heads are no challenge at all. He's kissed a lot of idiots, and yeah, when he got to college he went a little crazy maybe, and kissed more than usual. But the smart ones smell the stupid on him, see the roughneck hick he really is and edge away. He's not in their league, but he's trying. Jasper Sitwell, who has permanent stubble, huge glasses and a foul mouth, has been the subject of his ridiculous adolescent fantasies since he sat down next to him in art history, and while these fantasies include peeling his clothing off and touching the olive-skinned hipbones he's only caught a glimpse of, they also seem to involve eating breakfast with him and watching him sleep and sitting in the library until late at night, working on homework in companionable silence. He's filled a lot of sketchbook pages. He should probably burn the sketchbook as soon as possible, so no one ever knows.

"Hawkeye?" Jasper says, waving a hand in front of his face, and Clint snaps to attention. "Still with me?"

Stupid stupid stupid. "Yeah, sorry, was thinking about something."

Jasper nods and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Do you want to go get lunch?"

The nervous spaz is imminent. "Uh. Sure."

"It's half past three, that's all, and I'm fucking hungry." He smiles, shows sharp canine teeth that Clint is now imagining scraping up his jaw. "Dining hall or elsewhere?"

His budget could probably stretch to elsewhere, but maybe not. "Dining hall," he shrugs, "I've got a meal plan."

"Me too," Jasper says, standing up. "We can keep going with this later if you'd like."

"Yeah," Clint replies, mouth dry, "I'd like that a lot."

It's been two weeks since that day and Clint has never done so much homework in his life. He spends all evening there, from whenever class finishes until the library closes at two, sitting at a table with Jasper, working. He's fully caught up on everything, including his observational drawing sketchbook requirement, which has a few still-lifes of his dinner or whatever he had in his bag, a lot of library interior drawings, a few sketches of people studying and a lot of face and hand studies of Jasper Sitwell. Fortunately, the subject of these studies is usually too busy with his own homework to notice. Clint really wants to reach out and just touch him already, just do something, get it over with and get rid of the tension, but he doesn't want to overstep.

Jasper is his friend now. He doesn't treat him like an idiot or a loser, he doesn't care that Clint can't speak French and had a terrible education and sucks at sitting still, he doesn't care at all. He makes jokes and laughs at Clint's and explains things when he doesn't understand. He can't lose that, he just can't. So he sits and watches the sharp angles of the insides of Jasper's wrists as he writes, mentally catalogues what makes him laugh, and steals extra almond granola bars from the dining hall to give him. He doesn't expect anything.

He isn't expecting it when Jasper says, "walk you home then?" one Friday night as they shuffle out into the cold. They live in different buildings, and usually part ways at the library doors.

"Uh," he stammers, "uh, sure." Smooth, Barton.

"You can loan me your Fagles edition of the _Iliad_ that you keep talking about," Jasper says, and grins at him, that pointy, cheerful smile. "It's only two, practically the afternoon still."

"Sure," Clint says, and spends the whole walk in silent panic, not sure if he's hoping Bruce is there or not, and wondering if he left yesterday's clothing on the floor.

As it turns out, he put away his clothing and Bruce isn't there. Jasper looks around in interest, reading the spines of the books on the shelves and the posters on the wall. He cracks a smile at Clint's _Indiana Jones_ poster, and while he's digging through the pile of books at the end of his bed, he hears Jasper moving around behind him, probably looking at his desk and the pile of… open sketchbooks.

Shit.

Ears burning and stomach heavy with custardy dread, he eases himself upright, clutching the Fagles translation in one hand, and takes a deep breath, still looking at the wall. Before he can psych himself up to turn around, a hand closes around his elbow and spins him so he's face to face with Jasper. "You're so fucking dense sometimes," he says, and before Clint can reply, kisses him hard on the mouth.

Jasper is leaner, but they're mostly matched for height and build, and for all he looks like a geek, a nerd, he's not shy. He works a knee between Clint's legs and digs his fingers into his shoulder blades, pushing as close as he can manage. Clint's higher brain shorts out, instinct takes over and he tugs him down onto the bed, makes an attempt to pin him, but Jasper shoves him flat on his back and settles across his hips, grinning down at him. It's the most fantastic thing ever.

"I've wanted to do this since the fall semester," he says, hands already unbuttoning Clint's shirt.

"I like you a lot," Clint blurts out, and Jasper stops and peers down at him, unreadable. He's totally screwed this up, it was just meant to be a Thing, not an actual anything, not like Bruce has and everyone else has and and and…

"Good," Jasper says, matter of fact. "I'm not interested in casual. Or hatefucking."

"Hatefucking?" Clint says, propping himself up on his elbows. The conversation seems to have gotten away from him.

"It's an option, I guess," Jasper shrugs, and peels off his hoodie and shirt in one motion. "But I like you a lot. Want to be my boyfriend?"

"Your boyfriend?"

Jasper shoves him flat and leans over him. "Yeah," he breathes, almost growls, "I don't share."

Bruce Banner is surprised to note that Jasper Sitwell is more muscular than he looks, although not up to the Thor standard (who is?). He also looks really happy, curled around a still-sleeping Clint, one protective arm over his back and a hand curved around his head.

Awkwardly, he clears his throat, and says, "if you hurt him, I'll lock you in the fume hood and melt your brain."

Jasper smiles, a little shy, and whispers, "noted," so low that if he hadn't seen his lips move, Bruce would have sworn he had imagined it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (None of this is Giles' fault, I promise. - Sidney Sussex)

It's not that Phil minds what they're doing; really, he doesn't. Even though it's against the rules and he should be putting a stop to it wholesale. He doesn't mind, though (on the scale of things they could be doing, it could be much worse, especially with Barton and Sitwell teaming up), and he really doesn't feel like coming down too hard on them.

It's just that he would really like to get one night's sleep without Thor passed out snoring on his floor.

The problem isn't that Sitwell is spending every night in Barton's room. Barton's roommate doesn't even care; Banner sleeps down the hall in four-fifteen these days, and that's the real problem. He and Pym are up until all hours (and they're not even doing anything, Thor says they study), lights on and voices low, and while they're not breaking any rules and frankly Phil wishes the other residents on his floor were half as dedicated, he still kind of understands why Thor keeps showing up at his door in the early hours of the morning, pillow under one arm and half-blind stuffed lion under the other.

One of the reasons Phil became an RA in the first place is because of the private room. He has a tough time sharing his space with people, old discomforts come back to haunt him and he ends up spending all his time in the study lounges. (The other reason is because he needed the money; his mother tries, but Phil goes to a good school and sometimes there just isn't enough without Phil earning something he can chip in. He doesn't tell anyone that, though. Everyone's got problems, and his are his own business.) He doesn't mind sharing occasionally, people have extenuating circumstances and Thor is always polite and far too jovial for midnight. He just kind of wishes it weren't every night.

Tonight, when Thor knocks on his door (and Phil knows he intends it to be just a light tap, but it's Thor, so it's a booming fist against the hollow wood), he opens it and says, "We have got to stop meeting like this."

Thor, of course, doesn't get the reference.

Sighing, Phil stands back to let him in, watching as Thor does his usual long-limbed, graceless faceplant onto the floor, nose mashed into his pillow, one arm still clutching the ragged lion. He's used to the routine by now; Thor will flop onto the floor, shuffling around and looking for a comfortable position while Phil finishes his evening's work, gets ready for bed, and steps over him several times in an attempt to move around the tiny room. When he finally settles, he'll lie there like a dead man (who snores) and Phil will shift under his covers and stare at the wall and wonder why the hell Pym can't just sleep in Banner's room.

Phil likes Thor, he's a genuinely nice guy, but the sleeping arrangements have got to go.

On Monday, Phil has a meeting with the residence coordinator for permission to change rooming assignments. It's unorthodox – what the university in its wisdom has joined, let no RA put asunder – but Phil is good at his job and tackles most problems without assistance, so he's earned a little trust. By the end of the day, he's made a couple of re-assignments; he can't do anything about Sitwell, he's registered on another floor, but he's moved Banner tentatively to Pym's room and put Thor in with the new guy, a third-year transfer student from the local community college who arrived a week late and ended up without a roommate for the fall semester.

Things quiet down a little on the fourth floor after that; Phil isn't interrupted late every evening by the arrival of a giant, well-meaning Norwegian exchange student, and everyone seems to be getting along – at least, Phil hasn't had any complaints. Banner and Barton still spend breakfast honing their sarcasm skills together, Pym still stays up most of the night doing experiments Phil thinks it's best he not know about, Sitwell still spends all his time on their floor instead of his own and Phil wonders if his RA (a post-graduate student called Blake, Phil doesn't know him well but he works hard and has a tough floor) has even noticed. But everything seems to be going well, until one night as Phil is climbing into bed (blissfully unaccompanied by the sound of snoring), there's a quiet knock at his door.

For a split second, he thinks it must be Thor (who else?), but then he realizes that it was an actual knock, not a miniature earthquake, so he opens the door curiously, only to find someone he doesn't recognize at all standing outside. It always makes Phil feel like some kind of bad parent when he isn't familiar with all of his students, but they're only a few weeks into the new academic year and he doesn't remember this guy from orientation. Maybe he isn't even a student, just lost or something; he looks pretty young even for first year.

"Hi," says Phil, at the same time as the guy says, " I don't mean to be a bother," and they both stop for a second and change tacks, Phil saying something about how it's not a bother, it's what he's here for, the kid interrupting whatever he was starting to say next in favour of, "hi," and a shy smile. "I don't know if you remember me," (and damn, so he is supposed to recognize this guy), "I'm Steve Rogers. I transferred in?" Phil manages not to do a double-take at the introduction (but seriously, he's a third-year?) and instead offers a hand, because it seems like the thing to do. "Phil Coulson," he says. "I'm the RA for the floor… which I'm guessing you already knew, since you're here." _Way to go, Phil_ , he tells himself, _one sentence in and you're already convincing the new guy you're an idiot_.

"So, um," Steve says, "I was wondering if you could – I mean, I know the study lounges are closed after midnight, but I thought maybe…" He's right; the lounges are closed. Technically, Phil could let him in; he has access to the key and he's had to do it before (Barton leaves his stuff around everywhere and has a habit of needing it at three o'clock in the morning), but he isn't really supposed to and he's already creatively modifying far too many rules. He looks Steve up and down for a moment, gauging potential reactions, then says, "You can't sleep in the lounge, but if you want, you can stay here. You'll have to bring your own stuff," and Phil is not entirely sure why he's even offering, Steve is going to have to get used to it eventually, but there's something about the shy grin and the apologetic way he asked and it's kind of Phil's fault he's rooming with Thor in the first place, so Phil shrugs and says, "if you want" again, and he gets another one of those grins in return, "thank you, I really appreciate it, are you sure?" but Steve is already turning away to grab his stuff from his room even as he asks.

It doesn't seem to bother Steve to sleep on Phil's floor. He's not restless, he doesn't snore or talk or move around a lot, and in the morning, he folds up his blankets and says "thanks" again before he leaves. Phil watches him go (the transfer students get a raw deal, they register later so they always get stuck with the eight AM classes) and decides that, as much as he enjoys having a private room, that could have been a lot worse. He wonders what Steve is studying, why he transferred over, what he does when he's not in classes. He wonders why he hasn't seen Steve around in the residence hall. He wonders what Steve thinks of Thor's stuffed lion.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, the observatory is open to students until two AM. Phil spends most of his evening there, working on an ongoing project for his astronomy elective with Dr. Selvig, then returns to his floor late at night. He's intending just to pull the "in observatory, feel free to call my cell if it's an emergency" sign off his door and go to bed, it's been a long day and he's ready to call it quits, when he walks past room 403 and Steve Rogers is sitting in the doorway, frowning at a sketchbook in the dimly-lit hallway as he erases something from the page. Phil can hear Thor, too, even through the closed door of the room, and he shoots Steve a tired smile. "Voluntary exile?" he asks, and Steve nods. Phil really just wants to go to bed, he does, he's exhausted and he has an early start tomorrow, and he doesn't mean to say, "you can stay in my room again if you need to," but somehow that's what ends up coming out of his mouth, and Steve looks so grateful and so worn around the edges that Phil can't bring himself to do anything but nod and agree with his traitorous brain.

The third time Steve sleeps on the floor in Phil's room, it's because Thor has a cold, and if they listen closely, they can hear him snoring through the walls from the far end of the dormitory. The fourth time, it's because Steve has an art history test in the morning and Thor is talking to his extended Norwegian family over Skype. Phil means to let him get a good night's sleep, he really does, but somehow they end up talking until well after midnight about Steve's family (his mother died when he was young and he grew up with his best friend's family), why he transferred (they couldn't afford university until he won a scholarship; he says it defiantly, as if he's expecting Phil to think it's shameful, but Phil is here on a partial scholarship as well), his plans after graduation (he'd like to make a living from his art, but he has backup plans as well). The fifth time Steve sleeps in Phil's room, Thor helpfully drags his mattress down the hall for him and deposits it in the middle of Phil's floor; Steve asks what Phil is working on and Phil talks about the autonomy of American troops in World War II for about twenty minutes before he realizes he's gotten carried away and apologizes. "No," Steve says, "it's fascinating, please, keep going," but Phil has run out of impetus and is edging dangerously close to the kind of embarrassment that makes him babble like an idiot in front of (Steve) people he likes, so he just shakes his head. "We should get to sleep."

Steve asks him once about his family. Phil ignores the question, scribbling nonsense notes into the margins of his essay draft for Politics of Population until Steve changes the subject and they complain companionably about the mandatory meal plan for a while. Steve doesn't ask again.

It snows for the first time in early November. Steve's mattress has been on Phil's floor for over a week and Thor has started to grin knowingly at Phil in the hallways, which is unsettling because Phil doesn't know exactly what he's implying, but he's pretty sure Steve wouldn't appreciate it. He's a good friend. That's all.

That's when Steve knocks on the frame to his open door, flushed and grinning and with half-melted snowflakes matting down down his hair, trickling over his ears and onto his collar. "It's snowing," he says happily, as if Phil could possibly have missed that fact. Phil, in fact, is silently and fervently reminding himself "he's a good friend, that's all," and so he almost misses Steve's next question, which starts with "Bucky will love that, he always does" and ends with "what are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

Phil never does anything for Thanksgiving, or for Christmas, or for any of the holidays. He tells his mother it's because of his RA duties; he tells his fellow RAs it's because of his schoolwork; he tells his classmates it's because the trip isn't worth it just for a couple of days. He doesn't tell anyone at all that not going home for the holidays saves them the price of a train ticket they can't afford, that staying in the residence hall means they don't have to worry about food or gifts or decorations or any of the shiny holiday trappings that his mother would insist on making sure they had if he went home. But Steve is neither fellow RA nor classmate; he's (a good friend, that's all) something else, and Phil says "nothing" almost before he thinks about it and then stutters over an explanation that doesn't quite emerge before Steve says, "Then you can come back with me!" There's a beat where Phil stares at him, stunned, trying to think of a way to say no politely, trying to think of a way _not_ to say no, and then Steve asks uncertainly, "Right? If you want to, I mean," and somehow Phil's 'no' and 'thank you' and 'I can't' come out as "yes."

Phil and Steve leave for Brooklyn on the Wednesday night late train, after Phil has finished dealing with issues that might come up in his absence and taping his cell phone number to his door. They get a seat together at the back of the last car (it's a crowded train, last chance to New York City before the holiday) and Phil spends most of the trip worrying about his coursework and his RA duties and his mother so that he can pretend he's not worrying about meeting Steve's family (which is ridiculous, Phil, he's just your friend, this isn't a big deal). Steve spends most of the trip telling him not to worry and yes, he locked his door and yes, he turned in his interim assessment, until it gets late and they dim the carriage lights and Steve stops talking and just smiles sleepily at him and mumbles something about Bucky and turkey and four days off that Phil thinks might have been meant as reassurance. He falls asleep when they are nearly there, which is unfair because his head slips sideways to rest on Phil's shoulder and Phil doesn't want him to wake up, he doesn't want to lose the warm pressure or the even sound of Steve's breathing, but it's not long before they're calling Penn Station and Steve is up, dragging his duffel and Phil's backpack out from under their seats and waving through the fogged-up window at someone Phil can't see.

Phil gets introduced to a guy their age with messy brown hair and an expressive face that reminds him inexplicably of Clint Barton. The guy, Bucky, grabs Steve and hugs him (Bucky's not big or broad-shouldered, he's shorter than Phil, but he's wearing a bulky jacket and Steve vanishes in his grip only to emerge laughing, gasping for breath). Phil's welcome is somewhat less whole-hearted; Bucky looks him up and down, then smiles and says "hi" and "Phil, right?" but there's an undertone of wariness to it and Phil, who has already decided he likes Bucky because Steve does, is not so sure Bucky has reached the same conclusion about him.

They take the subway from Penn Station, because cabs cost money. Bucky spends the trip asking Phil probing questions about how he met Steve, what he's doing at school, where he's from. Phil spends the trip answering Bucky in what he hopes is the least offensive way possible (what if he has a grudge against RAs? or history majors? or Illinois?) and examining the people on the train around them so that he doesn't have to meet Bucky's inquisitive gaze. Steve spends the trip slumped between them, half-asleep; he's resting against Bucky now, and Phil feels off-balance without his weight, strange with this new third person in their dynamic, and then suddenly cold as he wonders who Bucky really is to Steve. They grew up together, they've known each other all their lives, and what if Phil is the unwanted third wheel here? He tells himself firmly that Steve invited him here. That Steve, at least, wants him here. That it doesn't matter what there is between Bucky and Steve. It's none of Phil's business. Steve is a good friend. That's all.

For a change, Phil sleeps on Steve's floor. He and Bucky share a room, have done since they were young; it's a tight fit with three of them, but space is at a premium in New York and siblings have already claimed every available sleeping surface (there aren't many). In the morning, Bucky's mother (she says "Mrs. Barnes" makes her feel old; Steve calls her "ma" the same as the Barnes kids, but Phil, whose mother taught him respect for his elders, has to get used to "Winifred") apologizes for not having been awake to greet them the previous night, tells Bucky off for not waking her, Steve off for not eating properly at university, and almost begins to admonish Phil before realizing he's not one of hers and beaming, "you must be Phil, welcome to my madhouse" instead.

Phil ends up on potato-peeling duty because he insists on helping, Steve and Bucky next to him on washing and drying, respectively, the others chased out of the kitchen and told to make themselves scarce until it's time to eat. Phil has never seen so many potatoes for one family in his life, but Steve and Bucky pass the time in a game of of one-upmanship telling Phil embarrassing stories from one another's childhoods, and the morning goes quickly. Bucky, it transpires, is a junior in civil engineering at West Point; he's going to be a soldier, just like their father. Phil, who has heard from Steve about what happened to George Barnes, nods respectfully and then, when Bucky ribs Steve lightly about "none of that fancy art stuff at his school," asks Steve if that's why he didn't apply to go there.

"I did apply," says Steve quietly. "They didn't take me."

After that gaffe, Phil keeps his mouth shut and his eyes on anything but Steve until he's done with the potatoes and can escape gratefully to the living room to entertain some of the younger Barneses until dinner. "Entertaining" seems to consist mostly of their howling with laughter while he repeatedly fails at whatever video game they're playing, but it's better than Steve's reassuring smile and Bucky's accusatory glare, so he'll take it. Dinner, at least, is pleasant – he ends up between Steve and one of the other kids, a two-person buffer between him and the glare. One of those two people is Winifred, who says grace and asks them all to tell her what they're thankful for and quashes the youngest children's protests with a look Phil wishes he could learn. She's thankful for her children and her husband, God rest his soul; Steve is thankful for family and friends (and when he says it, his eyes rest on Phil a little too long and Phil fails to notice that it's his turn). When he's regained his composure, Phil is thankful for a place to be and people to be with, and this time it's Bucky's eyes that linger thoughtfully on him as they begin eating.

They're clearing away dishes when Bucky corners him in the kitchen. The glare from earlier isn't quite gone, but it's overlaid with something else (determination, concern?) as he takes the plate out of Phil's hands and leans against the counter, effectively blocking his exit. It's a moment before he speaks, and when he does, he doesn't mince words. "Steve likes you," he tells Phil, like it's a challenge.

His meaning doesn't sink in right away, but then Phil realizes exactly what Bucky means by that. "No, I – " he says, and it's what he's been telling himself for weeks now (Steve is a good friend, that's all), only the words won't come out and Bucky doesn't wait. "Steve likes you," he says again, "so do I need to have the whole leg-breaking talk with you, or are we understood?" Phil wants to protest, tell Bucky he's misunderstood something, but Bucky (who stands shorter than Phil and should be completely non-threatening in a kitchen apron holding Phil's dessert plate) looks like he will brook no argument, so Phil just nods and says softly, "yeah, we're understood." It's like flipping a switch; Bucky grins broadly, claps Phil on the back, turns to the sink. "Great," he says. "Are you washing or drying?"

On Sunday, their train back to school leaves at midday. Bucky takes the subway with them (he's catching a ride back to West Point from the station with a squadmate), punches both of them in the shoulder (Steve staggers, but hits back; Phil really wants to, but he knows it'll frustrate Bucky more if he rolls his eyes and pretends to be above that kind of thing), and gives Phil one last parting glare before he leaves. Steve is less naive and more observant than he looks, so on the train, he asks Phil, "What was that about?"

And Phil knows Steve isn't an idiot, so he doesn't try to deny it or ask what he's talking about or anything. He doesn't have a ready answer instead, though, so he just sits there, flipping through the options in his head (there really aren't any good ones) until Steve waves a hand in front of his eyes and says, "Phil?" and suddenly all he can think about is how much he likes this, just the two of them, and how important it is not to lose it or screw it up or say anything stupid that might incur the wrath of Bucky.

It's ironic that he hasn't been able to talk to Steve alone all weekend and now that he can, now that Steve is waiting for him to, he doesn't know what to say.

 _There's always the truth_ , his subconscious reminds him, and he swallows it down and tells himself that Steve is a good… but he couldn't say it to Bucky and he can't say it now, because he's past the point of being able to convince himself. And Steve is still waiting and Phil is still frozen and this is quickly moving from anticipatory into awkward, so he opens his mouth to say something (he still hasn't figured out what) and is stopped by Steve's gentle huff of laughter. "This is even more painful than Bucky said it was going to be."

Phil manages a "what?" but Steve is still smiling and two things are fast becoming clear to him: one, Bucky is a rat bastard, and two, Phil owes him one. "He told you," Phil says, resigned, and Steve shrugs a little. "Actually, I kind of… guessed. A long time ago." Phil doesn't ask how long or how he knew; he's too busy having nightmare flashbacks to all the dumb things he's said and done around Steve lately, all the near misses, everything he's explained away to himself (a good friend, that's all), and Steve knew all along. He wasn't fooling anyone but himself, and if he's honest, maybe not even that. "Um," he says, which isn't really an improvement over the past several minutes. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Steve looks slightly deer-in-the-headlights at this point, which is fair,it's Phil who should have said something, but… "You seemed pretty determined to be friends," Steve says, "you know, just friends, so I didn't…"

Phil says, "What, you didn't seek out Bucky's expert relationship advice?" and Steve mutters something and turns faintly pink. He leans in closer to hear, and Steve (bright red now) says, "Actually, he told me to – to just kiss you and see what happened." Phil blinks and Steve adds, "He also told me to text him a picture of your reaction."

Phil considers this for a moment, then grins. "Give me your phone."

Perhaps it's mean of them to be ignoring Bucky's increasingly-urgent text messages as they get back on campus, but Phil is not overly bothered and Steve doesn't seem to mind very much either. It's evening and the residence hall is filled with returning students, Phil's door plastered with messages left for him while he was gone. As they're walking past the row of open fourth-floor doors, Phil's arm comfortable around Steve's shoulders (he's the perfect height), someone shouts, "You finally hit that, Coulson?" and Phil snaps back, "Get back on your own floor, Sitwell," and Steve is bright red again and his phone is buzzing and Phil doesn't care, he just kisses Steve and lets the door close on Barton's whoop and Thor's booming exclamation of pleased surprise.

(Some time later, after Bucky has started going out with a covert ops specialist at his first posting at Camp Lehigh, Phil asks Steve if George Barnes would have minded both his sons being gay. Steve just looks at him and laughs and says, "My dad was in the Howling Commandos," as if that should be an answer in itself.)


End file.
